


Prick

by Anyawen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Gen, John is Interesting, Post TBB, Scars, body art, pre TGG, sherlock is intrigued
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:27:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25868929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anyawen/pseuds/Anyawen
Summary: John has an appointment. Sherlock wants to avoid Mummy and musical theatre. He tags along.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 16
Kudos: 73





	Prick

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to bluebellofbakerstreet and 7PercentSolution for the loan of their beta eyeballs, and extra cookies for 7Percent for going above and beyond to ride the underground line I needed so I could get right the detail about which side of the car the doors opened on for which station ...

John put his empty mug on the worktop and turned to face Sherlock as he entered the kitchen, pulling on his gloves and glaring.

“Case?” John asked.

“Barely a four, but it's better than the alternative.”

“The 'alternative'?” John asked, curious.

“Mummy is in town. If I'm 'available' she'll want to spend time with me. I can't possibly survive a single minute of musical theatre ...”

“'Not a fan of Phantom, then? Seems like it'd be right up your street. Disguise, drama, and big swooshy opera capes.” John teased.

“God, no. Even Anderson and a botched crime scene are better than that,” Sherlock replied with a shudder. “Come on, John.”

“Ah, no, not this time, Sherlock,” John said, shaking his head.

“What? Why not?”

“I've got an appointment.”

“An appointment?” Sherlock repeated. 

John watched as the detective's eyes flickered over him. He quirked an eyebrow in invitation, and smiled to see the flicker of pleased surprise on Sherlock’s face. He clearly wasn’t used to having anyone encourage his deductions.

“It's not a meeting with your useless therapist, nor anything for work. It's not to do with Harry - you're much too cheerful for that. You're … excited about this, but it's not any sort of date - you're far too casually dressed,” Sherlock deduced.

“I am excited, yeah. Been wanting to do this for a long time. Finally have a bit of cash, thanks to that banking case, so today's the day. Which means I'm afraid I won't be joining you for your 'avoid-your-mother-and-musical-theatre' adventure.”

“Forget the case, this is far more interesting.”

“What is?”

“You are. Your appointment.”

“My appointment ranks higher than a 4 on your bloody insane scale of interesting things?”

“I do hate repeating myself, John.”

“You love hearing yourself talk,” John replied with a laugh. “So, what, then? You're going to avoid your mother by tagging along with me?”

“You're not saying no,” Sherlock replied.

“I suppose I'm not,” John agreed, putting his coat on and starting down the stairs. “Come on, then, but it's going to be a long session. If you get bored you have to promise to leave. Just go. Don't start trouble.”

“Of course, John,” Sherlock said, pulling the door closed behind them and stepping to the kerb to flag down a cab.

“Taking the tube, Sherlock,” John said, as he started walking briskly down the street.

“It will be crowded,” Sherlock said with an expression of distaste.

“This is London. Tube's always crowded.”

“Then why not take a cab?” Sherlock asked, following John to the Baker Street station.

“First, because cabs are expensive and I have other plans for my money. And second, because if I gave the address to the cabbie, you’d open some mind palace filing cabinet and have it cross referenced with London business listings before we even pulled away from the kerb,” John replied. “If deducing my appointment is more interesting than a ‘barely a 4’ case, then I’m not going to hand it to you on a silver platter now, am I? That would be cheating.”

“I'll still figure it out before we get there.”

“I know you will. Now shut up and move. Appointment's at half eleven,” John said, ducking through the doors into the station. He fed his Oyster card through the slot and headed down a flight of stairs to the eastbound Metropolitan line platform.

Sherlock followed, frowning in annoyance as the breeze announcing the arrival of the train blew his hair into disarray. John glanced away to hide a grin and Sherlock frowned harder, though now it was clearly an act rather than an expression of true irritation.

They stood to the side to make way for the disembarking passengers, then stepped aboard the train. Sherlock wasn't wrong – the carriage was crowded, but not full. John ignored the scattered open seats, moving across the carriage to grab the handrail near the opposite door. Sherlock grabbed the same handrail, just above John's hand. He lifted a brow at John's huffed breath.

“Prick.”

Sherlock drew himself up to his full height and stared down at John, attempting a haughty look. John chuckled in response, and Sherlock's lips twitched into a smile.

“Go on, then,” John said as he braced himself against the motion of the train as it rumbled through the tunnel.

“You've positioned us next to the doors rather than taking any of the available seats, so we're not going more than a handful of stops, and the only station in that set that uses doors on this side of the carriage is King's Cross.”

“Brilliant,” John said as the doors opened at the Great Portland Street Station.

“You're getting a tattoo,” Sherlock said a few moments later, when the train lurched back into motion after stopping again at Euston Square.

John raised an eyebrow, determined not to react in a way that would confirm or deny Sherlock's statement.

“And how did you get that out of King's Cross?”

“That's just a transfer point,” Sherlock said, rocking forward slightly as the train slowed. “Your mention of waiting for cash suggests that it's an expense you feel is somehow frivolous, so you waited until your immediate needs were met and your savings had enough not just for emergencies but for a bit of a splurge.”

“And how did that lead you to ‘tattoo’?”

“It didn’t. You did.”

“I did?” John asked over the hiss of the doors opening.

“You told me,” Sherlock said, stepping out after John and following him through the crowds to the southbound for a Northern line platform to catch a train going in the direction of Bank.

“Did I?” John asked, grinning as he stepped onto the train and held onto the bar by the door.

Sherlock smiled and once again reached over John to grab the same bar, slightly higher.

“‘Prick’,” he said.

“You’re sure I wasn’t referring to you?” John asked, smiling.

Sherlock snorted.

“Of course you were,” he said. “But you were also testing me. You refused to 'cheat' and divulge the address of our destination, then dropped the business name into conversation without indicating it had any connection to our trip or your purposes.”

“Your encyclopedic knowledge of London really is astounding,” John said, shaking his head and smiling. “Of course you’d know there’s a shop called Prick. But, still, I could be going in for a piercing.”

Sherlock studied him briefly before shaking his head.

“No. Or, perhaps, not yet. When you’re involved in a stable relationship, perhaps you’ll decide to explore piercings. Today, though … today is about you, and something you want for yourself. It’s a tattoo.”

“It is,” John agreed, as they exited the train at Old Street Station and headed up to the street.

“You wouldn’t get a common design from the catalog of art that shops hang on their walls. Not a gun, or a caduceus, or any standard image, no matter how fitting,” Sherlock mused as they walked down Old Street. “You have a custom design. Not military, but … military aligned. Commemorating your service in some way.”

“It relates to my service, yes,” John replied. “I don’t think ‘commemorate’ is the right word, though.”

Sherlock hummed in acknowledgement as John pushed open the door to the shop and said hello to the colorfully inked woman who would be working on him.

“Marilyn, this is Sherlock. Is it okay if he watches?”

“No problem. We get partners in all the time to watch each other get inked.”

John drew a breath to protest, and then sighed and, catching Sherlock’s eye, shrugged. Sherlock smirked at him, and John just rolled his eyes.

“You get a decent view from that chair,” Marilyn continued, pointing, “or you can stand, but don’t cross the white line.”

“Or what?” Sherlock asked archly as he eyed the painted line on the floor.

“Sherlock, be good or I’ll tell your mother where to come pick you up,” John said, slipping out of his jacket and tossing it at Sherlock.

Marilyn snickered.

Sherlock rolled his eyes but said nothing, stepping forward to toe the line on the floor as he accepted the jumper John handed him.

As John began unbuttoning his shirt Sherlock’s gaze rested on John’s left shoulder, his excited expectation almost palpable. 

“Marilyn specializes in tattoos over scars,” John explained as he pulled his shirt tails out of his trousers and slid the shirt off his shoulders, revealing a web of scar tissue on his upper left chest, just under his clavicle.

“Why would you cover that up, John? It’s fascinating.”

“Where are your eyes, Sherlock?” John asked with a sort of resigned amusement, tossing his shirt at him and hopping onto the table that Marilyn indicated.

John watched as Sherlock tore his gaze away from the scar on John’s shoulder and looked up at him.

“Everyone stares at it,” John said as Marilyn cleaned his skin, rubbed on a bit of petroleum jelly, and positioned the stencil.

“I’m not staring at it, I’m studying it. As I said, it’s fascinating.”

When Marilyn was satisfied with the design’s transfer, she peeled back the paper and handed John a mirror to check the positioning. He nodded, smiling.

“Yeah, that’s great,” he said, handing the mirror back.

Sherlock was practically vibrating. He had deposited John’s clothes in the chair and was standing at the line leaning in to peer at the design.

“An elephant?” he asked. “The poppies I understand, the elephant …”

“The scar is always the elephant in the room,” John said. “Now, it really will be.”

“Ready, John?” Marilyn asked, turning on the machine and making the air vibrate with its hum.

“Absolutely.”

Two and a half hours later Marilyn gently wiped off the excess ink and handed John the mirror again. A standing elephant, turned in three-quarter profile, filled with bright red poppies completely covered the scar and surrounding skin. The network of scars had been cleverly worked into the petals of the flowers, and the wrinkled skin of the elephant. The exit wound of the bullet that nearly killed him was now a gorgeous piece of art.

John listened to the proper care instructions as she rubbed on a bit of ointment and taped a dressing in place. He re-dressed, careful of the abraded skin of his tattoo. He paid Marilyn, thanking her and promising to leave a review on the shop website, and on his blog, before following Sherlock out the door.

Sherlock stopped on the kerb and threw out a hand, flagging down a cab. He opened the door and looked at John expectantly.

"You just watched me empty my wallet," John huffed. "If we take a cab, you're paying." 

"Obviously," Sherlock replied.

"Right, then. 221b Baker Street," John told the cabbie as he slid into the back seat.

"You know," Sherlock said, climbing in behind him, "you've got the wrong elephant."

“I've what, now?”

“It’s an African elephant,” Sherlock replied, pulling the door closed. “Elephants in Afghanistan would be _Elephas maximus_ , or Asian elephants.”

John studied the detective, amusement outweighing annoyance. He smiled.

“You really are a prick, you know that?” he said amiably.

"So I've been told," Sherlock replied.

John caught his gaze in the window's reflection and couldn't help but giggle. Sherlock smiled, his laugh rumbling in response as the cab pulled out into traffic headed for home.


End file.
